


The Broken Road

by Anna (adoring_audience)



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 17:19:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adoring_audience/pseuds/Anna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Brian is straight and married. Having achieved everything in life he ever wanted, he finds himself still lacking something. Enter Justin. Things spiral out of control from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Broken Road

 

  
**p a r t | 1**  
  
You met Lindsay when you were in college. It was your last year of med school, her first. You asked her out because she looked lost and you decided she needed a friend. And you needed someone to bring home with for the upcoming holiday. Your parents’ incessant nagging had started to annoy you. Your replies and explanations why you haven’t met the right girl yet were being ignored. They didn’t care that you took your education seriously. That you had plans because you didn’t want to spend your time working your ass off in some underpaid job in some decrepit old factory like your father had. Your whole life you had watched him slave away in the rubber foundry, making tires for expensive cars that he would never, ever, be able to afford, smelling of the putrid stench of rubber cement. All that to bring home his meager pay check that never lasted till the end of month. You had decided long ago that, when your children went to college, they wouldn’t need to work two jobs just to be able to pay for it. You decided your children’s education would be paid for. And yes, you did know that they nagged because they loved you and wanted to see you happy. And because they felt that you weren’t. But you also knew that part of it was because meeting a girl and bringing her home to meet the parents would quell their suspicions, however faint and yet unformed they might be. You have never been the rebellious type.  
  
  
 **p a r t | 2**  
  
Joan and Jack were so overjoyed when you finally brought someone home for them to meet. She could have been older, hideous, and slow, they still would have liked her. It helped of course that she wasn’t. Lindsay was perfect. She commented on the nice and tidy interior of the modest house, congratulated your mother’s cooking talents and your father’s carpenter skills that he had developed not as a hobby but out of a financial necessity. But she didn’t need to know that. She was polite, shy, and always ready to help out in the kitchen. Every phone call home after that ended with the same lines being exchanged.  
  
“Give Lindsay our love and tell her she’s always welcome in our home.”  
  
“Thanks, Mom, I will.”  
  
  
 **p a r t | 3**  
  
The answer you had been waiting for came with the mail during the last week of your internship program. You invited Lindsay to the most expensive restaurant that night and celebrated your achievement. When other men would have asked her for her hand in marriage, you had a different kind of proposal to offer. With the money you would soon be making, you now could afford that loft-like apartment you have had your eyes on for some time now. You were so glad life was finally taking the direction you wanted it to, you were happy to share the news with her. You moved in together less than three weeks after that; right after you signed the contract that secured you a spot in the residency program of your choice, in the hospital of your choice.  
  
You had chosen your specialty carefully. Based on the prospective income and prestige it guaranteed. After all, you didn’t excel in your med class only to spend your life in some poorly paid job as an assisting trauma surgeon somewhere in the ‘burbs of a godforsaken place. You were happy to discover you had a natural talent for cardio surgery which required quite a lot of fine motor skills; a heritage of your father’s, you assumed, who had worked with his hands all his life. You were even more pleased when cardio turned out to be a very profitable field of work.  
  
  
 **p a r t | 4**  
  
Your parents were delighted to hear that you were doing great in your job, but even more thrilled when you announced Lindsay’s pregnancy. You were living in your own house by then, half an hour out of the city; and your parents had started to nag you about all the spare rooms, suggesting in a not-so-subtle manner how beautifully they would look with a couple of children in them. You couldn’t deny how happy it made you to see them overjoyed and excited when you informed them of the wedding that would soon be taking place. You were almost thirty by now and they were wondering when you would finally settle down. Never mind that you were living in a committed relationship for over five years now. Making it official gave your parents and your superiors a peace of mind that you were happy to provide them with since you didn’t care much for a signature on a piece of paper. After all, getting married was what you did when you reached a certain age and the woman you had had a relationship with got pregnant. Your marriage wasn’t based on passion – but whose was after a few years? You figured, you had a better shot at it starting out as friends. If sometimes, in the back of your mind, you wondered if you were living a life you weren’t supposed to, you distracted yourself by working longer hours, because you didn’t know what was supposed to be different about it.  
  
You surpassed everyone’s expectations, including your own, when it came to your talents in the operating room. You were surprised at how much satisfaction you derived from your work. While Lindsay was busy decorating the nursery, you drowned yourself in your job – taking care of patients, teaching interns, giving lectures, developing new techniques. You basked in the praise complimenting your talent. You loved the checks, too. And you could tell your newly wedded wife came to appreciate them also. You were more than happy to provide her with all the things that a young family needed, and more. You wished occasionally, there’d be more to life, but you didn’t have a clear idea of what the  _more_  should be about exactly. And you didn’t waste your energy dwelling on what was missing from your life.

 

 **p a r t | 5**  
  
The night Gus was born you saved a pregnant mother of two in a sixteen hour long surgery. You received the message that your wife was brought in with contractions from a nurse from the maternity ward while you held the heart of a stranger in your left hand and a scalpel in the other. Your pulse never quickened once. It took another seven hours until you were able to get rid of your face mask and your bloody gown and leave the OR. You hurried down the corridor and up to the maternity ward to inspect your newborn son while colleagues, nurses, and general staff members patted you on the back all around. You weren’t sure if they were congratulating you on becoming a father or for performing a near-miracle in the OR. You decided, both. But as you held your son for the first time, you knew you had come face to face with a true miracle.  
  
  
 **p a r t | 6**  
  
When Gus was three, Lindsay expressed her desire to return to work. Shortly after you had met, she had quit med school and had become an art teacher instead. She had been teaching middle school children when she got pregnant and was anxious to get back to her job. After a short discussion it was decided that Gus would need a day nanny. Lindsay took it upon herself to find a suitable babysitter and made a point of interviewing only male applicants. You didn’t know why – you never cheated. You attributed her behavior to her general insecurity and your passionless relationship. You weren’t about to address her ridiculous ideas because they were unfounded, and because, despite everything, things were good. You weren’t prepared for the whirlwind that turned your life upside down when Justin entered the stage.  
  
He was a twenty year old kid who worked several jobs in the day to pay for the evening college courses he was taking because his parents wouldn’t pay for college. You think you bonded over that. You would find out later that his parents’ refusal to pay for their son’s education was not due to them not being able to afford it; rather it was the result of a nasty argument that happened when he was only seventeen. He had been on his own since then and you felt your protective instinct flare up when he finally told you. That, and something else you weren’t entirely too sure about and pushed into the farthest back of your mind, refusing a further inspection. He was brave, fearless, and outgoing. He spoke his mind – a quality which you think you admired most of all. He took to your son from the first moment that they’d met and you felt comfortable entrusting Gus into his care as you realized he was just as taken with Justin. He was patient with the boy, and loving. Justin could tell the most exciting stories and paint the prettiest pictures, according to Gus. And he had the most infectious smile and the bluest eyes you had ever seen. You found yourself staring at his beautiful face and felt a shiver run up your spine whenever he came too close. That’s when you knew for sure things would never be as they were before.

 

 **p a r t | 7**  
  
He was dreaming of becoming a successful businessman. He told you he would love to work in advertising because, as he put it, if you knew the ‘biz’ you could make a lot of money there, really fast. He certainly had the talent and didn’t lack creativity. But after you thought about it, you came to the conclusion that advertising was not the right business for him. You let him know.  
  
“Why?” He acted offended.  
  
“You’re too good-natured for this kind of business.” You explained.  
  
“Am not.” He responded, his voice mocking indignation. He couldn’t help the smile from appearing on his face though.  
  
“That’s why.” You replied. “You’d have to be way more ruthless. You can’t be with a smile like that.”  
  
“So, Mr. Kinney,” he drawled, even though you asked him to call you Brian, “what would be an appropriate career choice then?”  
  
“Didn’t you say you liked to paint?” You asked back.  
  
“I cannot become an artist. There’s no money to be made being an artist.”  
  
“There is if you’re good enough.” You insisted.  
  
He gave you a look then that made you feel unsettled somehow, gazing at you through squinted eyes for a long time. “I never would have pegged you for the ‘you can be whatever you want’ type.” He finally quietly said before saying goodbye for the evening.  
  
  
 **p a r t | 8**  
  
You discovered you were looking forward to coming home when you knew he would still be there. You even cut down on your work a little, no longer spending almost every waking hour at the hospital. That he would stay hours after his working hours were officially over, just talking to you, made your body tingle all over with pleasure. You liked talking to him; about everything and nothing. About your childhood, growing up poor (“I now know what that feels like”). About your fears that someday someone would come along who was better at your job (“From what I hear  _you are_  the best”). About exceeding at your job and trying to be a good father (“You are”). You talked about Gus a lot. (“He’s a smart kid”), speculating when he would have his first girlfriend (“I had my first boyfriend when I was fifteen”). What kind of man he’d be one day (“You think he’ll be happy?”).  
  
“Are  _you_? Happy, I mean?” He suddenly asked you. You only managed to gape at him while realizing you’ve never been asked this before. What kind of question was that? “You sound battle weary. Who are you fighting against?”  
  
“You sound much too old for your age.” You tried to joke. He didn’t respond to your attempt to lighten the mood.  
  
“Aren’t you tired yet, being someone you’re not?” He asked instead.  
  
You kept on staring, motionless. He grabbed his bag, ready to go, but came back to where you sat on the recliner and placed a soft kiss on your lips. With a last look into your eyes he left. You sat there, dumb-struck, until Lindsay came back and started preparing dinner. You helped.

 

 **p a r t | 9**  
  
The next time he kissed you, you grabbed him so he couldn’t pull away and it didn’t end with just a kiss. It was Monday, and you’d spent the weekend trying to convince yourself that the kiss didn’t really happen. And when that didn’t work, you tried to tell yourself it didn’t mean a thing. When your lips wouldn’t stop tingling every time you thought about his mouth on yours, you tried another tactic – and banned him from your thoughts completely. Needless to say, you admitted defeat after only a few hours. You kissed Lindsay goodbye when she left for her first class, and paced your living room, keeping an eye on the clock on the wall and counting first hours, then minutes, waiting for him to ring the doorbell. You didn’t know what kind of greeting you should expect from him, and were much less certain about which one you would offer him. You started cursing at him and the universe when he was five minutes late.  
  
Nothing could have prepared you for the image of him on your threshold when you pulled open the door ten minutes later. The picture of calm and serenity he usually exuded was replaced by a nervous wreck. He was sweating slightly and worrying his lower lip with his teeth. You stared silently at each other for a good minute, and you noticed his irises turn a darker hue of blue than you ever remembered them being. He attacked your mouth and pushed his tongue between your lips. You were just as hungry to taste him. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it quickly over his head, exposing his flawless creamy skin. You fell to your knees and pressed your face against his stomach, thankful that he had the presence of mind to kick the front door shut.  
  
“I don’t know what to do.” You panted against his skin.  
  
“What do you want to do?” He asked calmly in response, but you heard his voice quiver slightly and felt him hold his breath.  
  
What  _did_  you want to do? Nip, lick, touch, suck, kiss, taste, rub, bite, stroke…  
  
“Everything.” You finally managed to breathe.  
  
He chuckled softly and let himself sink to his knees too.  
  
He pecked your lips tenderly and moved his hands to unbutton your shirt. His motions were slow as he let it slide down your shoulders and his eyes were riveted on yours as his lips moved across your chest in soft caresses. When he reached your waistband, he held still, his fingers hooked into the belt loops of your jeans.  
  
“Do you trust me?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Enough to let me drive?” He asked.  
  
You nodded and his fingers quickly undid your belt buckle. He pushed one hand into your boxer briefs while his other pressed on your chest. You followed his lead and let yourself sink back onto the soft rug in front of the sofa, though how you two managed to get there you didn’t know. He straddled your legs and placed his arms on both sides of your head, towering over you and staring intensely into your eyes. Something in his searching gaze made you think he was looking for answers, but you couldn’t imagine him finding any because, right then, you had more questions than you could count yourself. For a moment, you feared he would stop whatever it was that you two started and you grabbed his head, pulling him into a searing kiss, hoping to dissipate whatever uncertainty was left – whether on your part or his, you weren’t sure.  
  
He moved quickly to remove the remaining articles of clothing and came back to you, his touch soft, his movements slow and deliberate. You knew he was doing it for your benefit, careful not to scare you. Little did he know that you wouldn’t mind him using you to his heart’s desire. You were almost begging him to take this game between you to a new, wilder level; one that wouldn’t give your mind time to think, for fear of over-thinking it. Your body was more than ready to give – or receive –, but your mind constantly kept pulling the brakes. You sighed when you heard Gus’ voice – though if it was in relief or frustration you could never be entirely sure.  
  
You left for work that day, your muscles quivering with trepidation and unreleased tension. As you stood over the operating table, staring into an open chest cavity and at the pink, steadily pumping heart, the last picture that your eyes had swept over before leaving home firmly imbedded in your brain, you couldn’t quite find the usual satisfaction and gratification in your work.  
  
You had never thought much about what it would be, what it would need, for you to be happy until he planted the seed of this thought in your mind. And it took all the control you could muster to keep yourself from thinking about it now. However much it took out of you, you refused to consider what your recently uncovered desires implied, what meaning they carried if applied to your marriage and Lindsay. For thinking about them would make them more real than you were ready to deal with just now. But if you did allow yourself to think about happiness on occasion, on a purely hypothetical level of course, you doubted you would have come to a different conclusion had you given it some thought before. You have always been too focused on your life’s goal of making money. You figured since it was money that was always missing while growing up, money would be what would remedy the feeling of emptiness. You never stopped to think about why it wasn’t working; why you still had this nagging feeling of lack inside you, growing in proportion to the numbers in your bank account. You only knew you worked harder, more, longer because of that. Maybe you were looking in the wrong place, you now realized. Maybe what was missing from your life wasn’t a some _thing_ ; maybe it was a some _one_.  
  
You heard the OR nurse’s voice jerk you from your musings.  
  
“Dr. Kinney? Is something wrong?”  
  
You looked at her a little dumbly, thankful that your OR attire – mask and binocular magnifying glasses – covered almost all of your face. She nodded her head toward the open chest cavity and you glanced at the heart and then at the clock on the wall. You’ve been staring at it for almost ten minutes without moving, you realized.  
  
“Dr. Charney, would you like to finish and close up?” You offered your surgical intern.  
  
“Really?” You could hear the disbelieving excitement in her voice and couldn’t remember the last time  _you_  were so excited about your work.  
  
“Sure. It’s a fairly standard procedure.”  
  
You stepped aside to let the young woman show off what she had learned, watching and guiding her steps as if on autopilot. Your heart beat a wild drum in your chest, but it wasn’t because of anything happening in this OR. This was routine, after all.  
  
He had to guide you the first time you entered him; his words turning you on more than he would ever know and almost more than you could bear. His scent was clouding your senses, or perhaps it was the softness of his skin. You didn’t know skin could feel like that and your hands clawed at every patch of it they could reach, bruising and caressing at the same time. You would have loved to see his face but if it meant that he would see the wonder on yours, then maybe it was better that you couldn’t. You buried your face in his neck, your mouth sucking on the nape of his neck, leaving a mark. You’ve never felt the need to mark before. You moved mirroring his movements, whispered nonsense in response to his, and allowed your world to shatter before coming together again – the pieces that comprised it still the same, but different. You heard him cry out seconds later, the feral sound marking the beginning of a new order as everything around and inside you flickered once and changed forever. As you knew it would.  
  
You remembered a time when you would laugh at the ludicrous notion of walking on clouds, seeing the world in a new light, and all this other stuff that you deemed bullshit. And you were perfectly aware of your body’s chemical reactions – hormones, synapses, and the like. Still, you couldn’t deny that somehow colors did seem brighter, music did sound more beautiful, the sun was shining even though it would rain outside, and every time you looked in a mirror, a foolishly grinning idiot would look back at you. And then the smile would slowly falter as you remembered. And you wondered what your life could have been like had you met him a few years earlier.  
  
You both knew the life you were living now was only a reprieve. Soon enough a decision would have to be made and for the first time in your adult life you found yourself without a plan and scared shitless.

 

 **p a r t | 10**  
  
“Aren’t you going to ask me where I’m going?” He asks shaking the plane ticket in front of your eyes which he bought with your credit card because you insisted on paying.  
  
You only manage to shake your head. You don’t trust your voice right now.  
  
“I’m going to leave you my new cell phone number. Just in case.” He reaches for the pad of paper.  
  
“No.” You shake your head again. “We both know I’d be calling you before the hour was up. It’s better this way.” Because that’s what you do when you have a wife and a five year old son and you fall in love for the first time. You let him go. And cut the strings that might pull you back to him. Because no matter how much you want him, or need him, your life is slowly slipping through your fingers, turning into a mess you have no control over.  _He_ ’s turning it into a mess. He makes you do things you never did before. He makes you feel things you have no name for. He makes you want things you cannot express. He makes your heart race, and your limbs tremble, and he makes you forget your name. You cannot be a good surgeon when he’s in your life. You cannot be a good husband. He makes you wonder if you ever were. He undermines every cord that ties you to your world, to your life. And you just know that soon everything will come loose and tumble into anarchy. You’ve admired his ability to live and strive in chaos. You’re just not sure  _you_  can. And you need to control  _something_.  
  
After he leaves, you sit in the middle of your bed, fully clothed, telling yourself over and over again that you made the right decision. You know he’ll be alright. He is one of those people who always land on their feet. Your concern is not for him. You wait for Lindsay to return. She and Gus had spent the weekend at her parents’. When she does, she’s alone. You ask where your son is and she replies that she left him with his grandparents because you two needed to talk. She does most of the talking and when she’s finished, she grabs one of her suitcases and starts packing. She’s not putting up with the crazy hours you spend at your work anymore or with your lack of interest in your family. You almost laugh at that because, really, who’s not seeing things that are right in front of her?  
  
But before she walks out the door, she pauses and comes back to you, kissing your cheek tenderly. “You’ll be alright. You never needed me.”  
  
You fall asleep right there in the middle of the bed, not bothering to take off your clothes. The alarm clock goes off at five in the morning. You get up, shower, and get dressed for the day. Because that’s what you do on a Monday morning.

 

 **E p i l o g u e**  
  
Plane rides always calm you. There is something peaceful in the constant drone of the aircraft’s turbines, in placing your trust into the hands of human-made technology instead of a higher being. You think you like the irony of that.  
  
You cannot stop fingering the piece of folded paper in your hand, opening it, readings its contents – which isn’t a lot and you know them by heart anyway – and closing it again. But it’s the only connection that still ties you to this other you that you allowed yourself to be for a while. You hold on to this pathetic piece of paper like your life depended on it. And maybe you can’t let go because it does. Its folds are worn so thin by now, you think the only thing still holding it together is your hope. But lately, you find, you have a lot of it – whole reservoirs of hope, previously untapped; strong and nourishing. It’s all that sustains you, that keeps you going, because it sure as hell ain’t food or sleep. You have no idea what the fuck you’re doing. The last couple of days are a fuzzy blur in your memory. But you can learn to live with that. You learned there are other things you cannot live without.  
  
The woman in the seat beside you eyes you suspiciously. Eventually, she asks, “You’re afraid of flying?”  
  
“No,” you answer and you understand that she interpreted your fidgeting wrong. “Just nervous.”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“Going after what I want.” Even to your own ears the statement sounds weird. Shouldn’t you have a lifelong training in going after what you want? And yet, you know now, you never did before.  
  
“Ahh,” she nods knowingly. “Does she expect you?”  
  
“ _He_ ,” you emphasize, because, really, you don’t give a shit what a stranger whom you’re sharing an hour-long flight with thinks, “thinks he’s never going to see me again.”  
  
“Why does he think that?” She doesn’t even bat an eye at the change of pronouns when she asks.  
  
“Because I did everything I could to make him. I wasn’t even supposed to know where the kid went.”  
  
“But you do.” It wasn’t a question.  
  
“Credit card statement.” You say and wave with the piece of paper in your hand. She worries her forehead, not understanding completely but accepting your answer. You’re unwilling to disclose how you went through every waste basket in your house in search of that stupid slip of paper when you realized it would have his flight destination listed. Or how you cried searing tears of relief when you finally held it in your hand. Or that you refused to let go of that worn sheet as though it was your lifeline. Flight number and arrival time, followed by the destination: Pittsburgh International Airport. Though why he would choose that godforsaken place was beyond you. But you don’t care. You’d follow him to Timbuktu, if that was where he’d have gone.  
  
“So, how are you going to find him?” She asks.  
  
You release a deep breath. “I honestly don’t know,” you answer. You haven’t thought that far ahead.  
  
“Maybe I can help you with that,” she offers.  
  
“You’re a detective?”  
  
“No. A lawyer,” she laughs. “But I can introduce you to people. A gay boy in Pittsburgh won’t stay a secret for long. Just go to the Liberty Diner, it’s on Liberty Avenue, and ask for Debbie. She’ll help you. Sooner or later they all end up on her doorstep.” You look at her curiously and nod. Every help is appreciated at this point, even though you think she’s exaggerating. “I’m Melanie Marcus,” she introduces herself.  
  
“Brian Kinney.”  
  
“The heart specialist?”  
  
“You know me?”  
  
“Not personally. I researched heart surgeons when my grandfather needed a valve transplant. You’re good.” You nod. What else are you expected to reply. Besides, your mind is only half on the conversation anyway.  
  
“Are you?” You ask her.  
  
“Am I what?”  
  
“Any good.”  
  
“Some people think so. Why?”  
  
“I might need your services.” She raises her brow in response and you elaborate, “A divorce. And once that is through, there’ll probably be a battle for custody.”  
  
“Call me when you know where you’re staying,” she says handing you a business card, and you feel grateful because she doesn’t ask questions or demand explanations right now, and you’re free to go back to fidget with the paper in your hand and stare outside the plane window at a slowly darkening sky.  
  
You hail a cab and tell the driver to get you to Liberty Avenue. It’s dark outside when you step out of the car and pay the driver. You look around, looking out for the Diner Melanie told you about, taking in the scenery. Couples – homo, hetero, and everything in between – holding hands, kissing, making out, with seemingly not a care in the world. Despite the chaos inside you, you almost smile at the openness of it all. It almost feels like home. And that’s when you see him. Standing under a lamp post, staring into space with an unfocused gaze, looking lost as yellow light pours over his head. You watch him for a few seconds, just taking him in until he turns his head suddenly, his eyes meeting yours, and you wait for the disbelief to subside and make room for recognition. You know the exact moment he begins to trust his eyes when the most incredible of smiles spreads across his face and you wonder whether you have ever seen such beauty before. You smile back, not as radiant, but you could never compete with his brilliance anyway, so you don’t even try. He doesn’t move and neither do you as you continue to stare at each other. He tilts his head to the side, challenging you with his eyes and you know, this time, you’ll have to come to him. It was him who found  _you_  in the first place, hidden so deep you couldn’t even see yourself, but he somehow managed to see you anyway; it’s your turn now. You take calm, measured breaths, feeling for the first time as though they reach your very core. You wait for the feeling of calmness to spread through every cell of your body, allowing it to fill you, to wash over you, and to weigh you down, anchoring you to this new life and this new beginning before you make a step in his direction, never breaking his gaze.

 

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from and inspired by the lyrics of Rascal Flatts’ [Bless The Broken Road](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lZp6pmgbZyU).


End file.
